The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border eBook

“Turn it over,” said Bob. “If
it’s a real one given by the Kaiser it will
have the recipient’s name on it.”

Sure enough, there it was:

“Ober-Lieutenant Frederik von Arnheim.”

And beneath was inscribed:

“Pour le merite.”

“Great Scott, Bob,” said Frank. “What
do you make of this?”

“Some Hun officer stole our airplane,”
said Bob. “That’s what I make of
it.”

“But the war is over,” protested Frank.

“Maybe it is,” said Bob darkly. “But
if that bird doesn’t fly back with our airplane
I’ll make war on Germany myself.”

Despite his gloom, Frank grinned. He slapped
big Bob on the back. “Come on, old boy,”
he said. “No use hanging around here.
We may as well go back to the house and report the
latest mystery.”

“I wonder,” said Bob, as they set out,
“whether there is any connection between the
two—­between this theft of our airplane and
that stuff yesterday.”

It was Mr. Temple who was able to provide an answer
to that question. The boys found him up and dressed
when they reached home, and himself considerably excited
over a telephone call from New York City. He,
too, was dismayed when told of the theft of the airplane.
But when the boys showed him the German Iron Cross
he hit the desk before him a resounding blow with
his fist. Their conversation took place in the
library.

“That fits right into the puzzle,” said
he. “Boys, while you were out of the house
I had a long distance telephone call from New York
City. The man who called said he was a chauffeur
who had driven two men down here yesterday, that he
thought they were on legitimate business, but that
when Bob tried to stop them he saw they were bad ones,
as he put it. Later, when they made him drive
them over to the radiophone station and he heard Tom
rout them with his pistol shots, he said he drove
off as they ran for his car and left them. He
inquired in the village and learned my name, and so
called me up to clear himself in case I intended starting
a pursuit.

“And he said,” added Mr. Temple, leaning
forward and speaking impressively, “that he
was pretty certain one man was a Greaser and the other
a Hun. Those were his own words. Of course,
he meant one was a Mexican and the other a German.”

“So when this chauffeur abandoned them they
stole our airplane to get away,” cried Frank
excitedly.

“Exactly.”

“Maybe,” said Bob, “I copped every
cent they had in pulling that Mexican’s coat
off his back, and they were without carfare back to
the city.”

“Oh, I suppose the German had money,”
said his father. “The German probably was
an aviator. And they stole the airplane in order
to escape from here quickly before we could get in
pursuit of them. I imagine they’ll land
in some deserted spot—­plenty of them in
the sandy reaches along the New Jersey coast, for
instance—­make their way to a railroad,
after abandoning the plane, and go——­”